Luis walked into the dimly lit room and Brodie followed, closing the door behind them. The room looked similar to the first one Brodie had been taken to—yellow cement-block walls, creepy kiddie décor.
A young girl, no older than twelve, sat on the bed with her back pressedagainst the wall, alone. She was balled up, gripping her legs tight. She wore a pink tank top and denim shorts and her face was speckled with glitter. She eyed Brodie and the AK-47 rifle, terrified.
Brodie propped the rifle against the wall and said to Luis, “Tell her we’re not here to hurt her.”
Luis communicated that. The girl nodded. Luis asked, “Cuál es tu nombre?”
The girl hesitated, then said in a quiet voice, “Julieta.”
Brodie said, “Ask Julieta if she knows Kyle Mercer. An American. He spends time here.” He added, “Snake tattoo on his arm.”
Luis asked, and she responded. Luis said to Brodie, “The American soldier. He was here.”
“Cuándo?” asked Brodie.
Julieta replied and Luis translated, “About three weeks ago.” Luis added, “She says he liked the older girls, so she only saw him one time in person.”
Brodie asked, “Dónde?”
Julieta pointed down at the bed. “Aquí.” Here.
Julieta kept speaking, and Luis translated: “He paid for her, for six hours. When he came in the room he brought her food and some money. He sat near the bed while she ate… just staring at the wall. He told her to rest. She fell asleep and when she woke up he was gone.”
Brodie processed that. It sounded like Señor Kyle had decided to give Julieta a break from her bleak profession. Brodie had known some truly vicious men who got moralistic and self-righteous when it came to protecting children and animals. It was a bright and easy moral line to draw, and guys who were otherwise up to their eyeballs in other people’s blood could at least hold something up as sacred. Maybe it kept them feeling human.
Brodie asked, “Did Señor Kyle have a favorite woman here?”
Luis asked, and then translated as she responded: “Sí. Carmen. She speaks good English and so she was one of his favorites. She is in Room Twenty-One.”
“Gracias,” said Brodie. He took five American twenties out of his wallet and placed them on the table next to the bed. He said to Luis, “Tell her to hide that.”
Luis translated, and she took the money and looked at it before shoving it in the pocket of her shorts.
Luis said, “Maybe we can take her with us.”
Brodie considered that, but rescuing Julieta was not part of the mission. “If we have to shoot our way out of here, she’s likely to get hurt or killed.”
Luis nodded reluctantly. Being the father of a young daughter probably made this particularly painful, but he seemed to come to terms with the fact that there was not much they could do for Julieta—or the other girls like her behind every bolted door in this godforsaken place. Calling the police was not an option in a country where the vice squad ran the vice.
Brodie retrieved the AK-47 and looked at the girl. “Gracias, Julieta.”
She stared up at him and did not reply.
They left the room and closed the door, and Brodie slid back the bolt. He noted the door number marked in grease pencil—17. They continued down the hallway in the direction of the steel door leading to the lounge, and stopped at the door marked21.
Brodie gestured to Luis, who knocked on the door and said, “Carmen, estás ahí?”
There was no response at first, then a female voice shouted, “Estoy ocupado!”
Luis turned to Brodie. “She’s busy.”
“Let’s interrupt.” He turned the knob, swung open the door, and quickly entered the room. Luis followed and closed it behind him.
The room was the same size as the others, but with a décor that skewed more adult—bondage gear hanging from hooks on the red-painted walls, a leopard-print rug, and a table draped in purple satin with some lit candles for a touch of romance.
“Hey! Qué mierda!”
An attractive, well-endowed, stark-naked brunette in her mid-twenties was standing over a full-size bed, leather paddle in hand. A middle-aged guy was bent over the bed, wearing only fuzzy pink handcuffs.
